Shotgun
by gilgameshforeternity
Summary: John bites at the inside of his cheek as Sherlock leans forward to take another drag from the filter still between his fingers. Oneshot written in honor of 420. warnings: drug use, m/m


**warnings:** drugs use and m/m

* * *

"No, no way Sherlock, get rid of it."

That's what rushes out of John's lips the moment he closes the door and actually sees what his flat mate is doing. Sherlock is sprawled across the couch, the epitome of lazy and smoking a joint, like it's the most natural thing in the goddamn world. Aside from the fact the stout thing looks like it belongs in Sherlock's pale fingers he ignores the pulse of curiosity his heart shoves into his body.

"John, calm yourself."

Even his voice sounds like its taking a break because how in the world the consulting detective can sound that raspy and languid is beyond him. He stands at the door, watching and the doctor in him hopes this isn't the first inklings of a spiral into other recreational drugs. Oh yes, he'd heard both from Sherlock and Lestrade himself the kinds of things the man had gotten into. Exhaling tiredly he makes a mental note to keep a close eye on Sherlock for the next few days and pray he won't have to play interventionist.

"Oh please John, this is purely for festive reasons."

"F-festive? What are you talking about."

Leaving his coat on a chair John wanders into the kitchen to make tea, it's been a long day and the flat smells heady and stuffy.

"What's the date John?"

"April 20th, why?"

"There's your answer."

He comes back and stands in the door way of the kitchen, his flat mate having stayed exactly where he was. Knees propped up on the cushions, one arm hanging off the couch and the other holding the joint so gingerly he thinks Sherlock might drop it at any second. Huffing John sits at his laptop and even though he didn't want to, while checking his email and updating his blog, he discretely searched 'April 20th marijuana' and lo and behold the first is hit a page entirely about the origins of the day.

"For the love of- really Sherlock?"

The consulting detective hums in reply before letting a cloud of smoke curl from his lips, like petals unfolding and John stops chicken pecking at the keyboard long enough to stare. Just as quickly as the flower blooms its swept away into the air to disappear and then he's looking into two glassy pools of liquid emerald.

"Would you like some?"

Honestly, of all the things Sherlock has offered him, to be his own personal forensic team, a place to stay he hadn't ever thought smoking would be on the list. So it was no surprise that when John opens his mouth to reply, nothing comes out except a rather confused noise and his eyebrows pulling together. It didn't stop his flat mate from physically offering the lit roll and staring at him almost expectantly.

"I-I uhm, I've never-"

"That's quite obvious John, now come over here and be festive with me."

It feels like the entire room has become a furnace and when he gets up he wishes he'd gone and changed out of his jumper because his whole body feels too warm. He shouldn't even be considering this; really, he's always been good about staying away from this sort of thing, even back in his school days. It wasn't hard to guess what some of the other rugby players were talking about doing and he made sure to steer clear. So now, as he sits down on the couch and Sherlock's knees fall apart, the joint is thrust toward him and he wonders where his self-control has run off to. At least he wonders until he looks back into those hazy pools of blue and there's the reason right there.

Sherlock gets his other arm under him and sits up, takes another hit as he scoots closer, the end flares and John clenches and unclenches his hands. Long, pale fingers offer the rolled cigarette and he can feel when Sherlock exhales, it floats around their wrists as he reaches for it cautiously.

"Right here at the end, the roach, yes," Sherlock murmurs as John gets his fingers around it. "take it slow."

The soft encouragement isn't enough to quell John's nervous tremor and he stares at the thing like it's going to bite him, his pulse quickens when he sees Sherlock's fingers press into the bone of his wrist. Gently, the filter finds its way to John's lips and he tries to draw the smoke in slow and it slips down his throat and tickles. Turning his head he coughs and he feels the hand on his wrist tighten, steadying him as he flops back into the cushions to ease his chest. Like pale, wandering vines beautiful fingers twine around his hand and John bites at the inside of his cheek as Sherlock leans forward to take another drag from the filter still between his fingers.

Really, John thinks, he should leave Sherlock to it, but watching the man smoke is more than just the act, it's that way his whole body relaxes and John can visibly see it. His shoulders are low and movements not at all hurried and his spine looks like it's made out of licorice. Out of amusement his lips quirk at the thought and he chuckles quietly to himself. From underneath dark lashes he sees Sherlock staring at him, a smile playing on his lips before letting go of John's hand. He tries again, steels himself against the fluttering in his chest and when he exhales it's a long thin stream of misty white.

"You're a natural John."

He smiles, because he can feel Sherlock's words, they're affectionate and impressed and settle over his skin like a blanket. Any kind of praise from the consulting detective, he thinks, should feel like this more often. They trade the joint a few more times, John still taking short drags because honestly he likes watching Sherlock take the longer ones, he waits in anticipation to see how his flat mate will exhale it.

When it's gone Sherlock tosses the filter to the coffee table and John is just fine to sit there and relax. The couch feels amazing, like it was made out of clouds and he thinks about how wonderful it would be to step outside and be in heaven, in paradise where the only crimes committed would be that of not enjoying one's self. He's contemplating what it would be like to have wings when he hears a clatter on the table and looks over. Sherlock has set a lighter next to the used filter and is holding out a new joint, offering John the first hit.

Looking it over he leans forward and he feels the heat of Sherlock's fingers press against his lips and it soaks into them, tingling and heady. Exhaling as he leans back, John wonders why the detective hasn't taken a drag yet and he realizes that its because the man is staring at him. His expression unreadable and finally the doctor gets to see him inhale from the homemade cigarette.

"John," with each syllable more smokes flows from his flat mate's mouth and it's so distracting, Sherlock's lips look so pale and pretty, "John. Lie back."

"Wh-what?"

Sure that sounded nice, but why, when sitting right where he is means access to the two things currently encompassing his entire world at the moment.

"Just lay back please."

It's enough to convince him because Sherlock never says please and he decides that it was a good choice because now he can rest his shoulder. Sherlock moves and John feels hands nudge his thighs closer together so bony knees can bracket them and a noise escapes his mouth when he sees the detective hovering over him.

"Sherlock," just saying his flat mate's name is hard, the 'r' and 'l' slur together because his tongue feels heavy and it's too warm in the small space of the couch to think past the two cat eyes staring down at him.

"Shh, open your mouth."

Okay, strange, strange why, John wants to ask why but that would be too much effort and he's pretty sure Sherlock would get annoyed. Parting his lips he watches, waits and it feels like time is moving at half speed.

"When I breathe out, you breathe in."

That's all the explanation he gets before his flat mate is taking a drag then ducking down. He can feel Shelrock's dressing gown fall around them, trapping them in the moment his feels a pair of soft lips fit against his own. John forgets to breathe and when he does its sudden and his eyes squeeze shut as he coughs. His whole world shakes and shudders and he latches onto Sherlock's shirt to steady himself.

"Shit, sorry," he rasps.

"Try again."

John doesn't protest or back out because when Sherlock matches their lips he hums in approval. Sherlock pushes the smoke into his mouth, slightly bitter but thick and wonderful all the same. His insides feel like they're made of yarn and he laughs quietly, the last vestiges of the smoke curling between them. He watches the detective lick his lips and smile.

"Would you like another?"

"Yes," he breathes and John almost groans when wet lips press against his. They're soft and inviting and he wants to rub their lips together and kiss Sherlock because he wants to _taste_ him now.

He grips tight to Sherlock's shirt, holding the man against him until they have to break apart for real air. Panting and flushed John admires how the consulting detective can look so calm and put together even now. Tugging a little more John hums when Sherlock obliges, pressing down into him so their bodies fit together and he opens his mouth in silent invitation for more.

It's like they're on autopilot, Sherlock doesn't mind sharing this way, in fact it feels too right to be sharing hits with John, their lips lock together and he doesn't ask before he licks into the doctor's mouth, slowly, feeling along the soft ridges of his palate. He feels John panting up into his mouth and even though he hasn't taken another drag he kisses the man, no smoke to distract as he tastes John and the drugs. Its slow and indulgent, eyes closed and he can feel every place their in contact.

Pulling back for a moment he feels John nuzzle into the crook of his neck and the hot breath slides across his skin like the humid air of summer. If he didn't know better he'd say it _was_ summer, all around them the air hangs in quiet suspense, waiting, pushing and pressing in on their bodies till the friction heats up more than the space between them. The next hit tips the scales and they both topple over the edge, boundaries disappear and Sherlock shudders when he feels John's hands drag down to cup his ass. They press him to the doctor and the long, drawn out groan he earns from grinding into his flat mate is enough to warrant more of the same.

"Sherlock," the doctor is a mess, mouth hanging open and panting, arousal lays thick over them like the smoke lining the inside of their lungs.

"Few more," he whispers, because the joint is disappearing fast and he desperately wants both of his hands to be free.

There's barely any room when they fit their mouths together, the doctor sometimes rearing up to meet him halfway and Sherlock moans because the hands on his ass push them closer together and he can feel how hard John is. He's hard too, but he's waiting and when they reach the filter he snubs it out on the coffee table and attacks John's mouth. Gripping the sides of the man's face he rakes his hands into the doctor's hair, mussing it and it's soft to the touch. They grind together for a moment, indulging in each others mouth, chasing the last of the smoke with swipes of their tongues.

When Sherlock pulls back John whines, soft and needy and then it turns into a harsh exhale when the consulting detective reaches between them. John is so far past caring that they're on the couch, or that only in his wildest dreams had he ever imagined this happening. But he gets the hint when Sherlock attacks his jeans and he's already working his hands past his flat mate's sleeping pants to tug them down.

For a moment they stare down between their bodies, watching each other as their hands find what the other wants. John isn't surprised to see how pale and lovely Sherlock's cock looks, different from his own that's flushed so dark at the head it's almost purple. He feels the detective move and he looks back up into glassy blue eyes and those impossibly long fingers wrap around them both and he breaths out shaky and waiting. Sherlock lies back down, trapping their cocks and John grips that amazing ass again and lets out a moan when they start to move.

It starts slow and he pants into Sherlock's neck, kissing and nipping when his mind finally catches up and notes that the skin in front of his eyes would look better with some decoration, namely from him. He can hear Sherlock's low groans right in his ear, feeding into his nerves like tangible electricity. Somewhere in the middle of it all John hopes he isn't hurting Sherlock, but when he bites particularly hard, on accident he feels the man thrust against him sharply and gasp in a way that asks for more. Their hips match up a little faster and John wants to see what their cocks look like sliding together in delicious friction, dripping with precum. And then he wonders what Sherlock's cock tastes like and the moan that rattles in his chest at the thought of wrapping his lips around that ruddy head is enough to spur him into thrusting faster.

By the time their lips find each others their thrusts are frantic, sometimes missing but always against each other and John kneads into Sherlock's ass, feeling that pliant flesh hot and full in his hands and the way the detective moves is sinful. They kiss, sloppy and full of saliva but John doesn't care cause he's so close and Sherlock is making noises that go straight to his dick. He feels and hears Sherlock gasp, swollen lips forming his name and John tenses up and together they flood the space between them with hot cum. Pressed against his flat mate John can feel each twitch and jerk as their cocks bump together, pushing out those last pulses of cum and making everything slippery and warm.

Breathing harshly he feels Sherlock shiver against him, his hips rolling languidly through the mess before he finally collapses onto John. Their chests press together, heart beats matching up in a wild rhythm and John closes his eyes. Right there, on the couch with his flat mate is heavenly and he relishes the feeling of Sherlock pressing a kiss into the side of his neck. Vaguely he hopes that was the last of Shelock's drugs, he isn't sure he could handle anymore of whatever this wonderful thing is without being in his right mind. He doesn't have to worry for long because exhaustion and warmth pull them both under to sleep off the last of their high.


End file.
